Domestic Spirit
by skag trendy
Summary: Sam and Dean are ambushed on a hunt in a way they didn't expect. With hurt/limp/kidnapped Sam, and mild hurt/possessed Dean. Awesome hero Bobby.
1. Chapter 1

**Domestic Spirit.**

_Synopsis: Sam and Dean are ambushed on a hunt in a way they didn't expect._

_With hurt/limp/kidnapped Sam, and mild hurt/possessed Dean._

_Awesome hero Bobby._

_Warnings: violence, language, suggestion of sexual abuse and assault._

_Set any season you want, more or less, but with spoilers for season one episode Asylum. I suppose you could say post season 4, given Bobby's knowledge of GPS tracking, but hey! It's fan fiction, you can choose whenever the hell you want._

_PLEASE pay no attention to any medical facts, etc._

_In fact, if anybody complains about anything, I'll transport myself electronically through the broadband link, rip off your arms and legs, and beat you to death with the wet ends!_

_Yeah, and that means you 'Guest' reviewers too. You might be anonymous, but one of my mates works for Inland Revenue, so never fear:_

_Somehow, someway, we'll find you. Oh bet on it._

_I'm kidding of course... mostly! ;-)_

**_Many thanks to Neats for the beta._**

_This story is complete in 3 or 4 chapters, and will be posted one chapter at a time over the next week or so._

_**Sorry I've been away for so long, guys. All is explained in the A/N at the end.**_

* * *

**Chapter One**

The beer was warm, the evening too chilled for comfort, and the smell of burning, rotten flesh still lingered harshly in his nostrils.

Sam heaved a world weary sigh and glanced back at his brother.

Dean's concussion-glazed eyes were squinting and scanning the treeline for any further threats, but Sam was almost positive the job was finished this time. After three aborted digs, at least two arguments, several bruised ribs and matching concussions, the brothers had finally located the correct grave.

Wife beater and murderer Joel Hardwick was now toast, but the bastard hadn't gone down easy. He'd put up one hell of a fight, slamming his ghostly fists into Dean's face over and over, repeatedly ramming Sam into a tree stump, and tossing them both around a time or six.

His grave marker had been vandalised, along with several others in this area of the prison cemetery, and the boys' had a damn hard time trying to find the sick sonofabitch.

It was fitting, Sam supposed. This section was only recently opened, the older part almost inundated following the recent outbreak of flu that was dropping inmates like hot stones, and Hardwick was a relatively new addition to the bad guy burial ground. He'd only been interred last month, but his spirit went active when his long suffering wife, Kimberly, was set to remarry precisely one year after his sentencing. His ghost not only ruined the ceremony and terrorised the guests, but put the groom in a coma. The bride had escaped with minor injuries and spent her honeymoon at her fiancé's bedside. Sadly, the guy never regained consciousness.

Evidently, Hardwick's jealousy and possessiveness had extended beyond the grave.

However, he wasn't anywhere near finished with his ex. Over the course of the next few weeks, he rampaged through her home, killed her pet fish, and tried to hang her from the upstairs chandelier.

The last straw came when Kimberly returned home from work one evening to find her new kitten nailed by its paws to the chimney stack in the living room. The poor little thing survived but was left badly traumatised, and had to go live at the local animal shelter for its' own safety.

Heartbroken many times over, and filled with an unbelievable rage brought on by years of maniacal domestic abuse, she decided it was time to call in the specialists. A friend of a friend's put her in contact with Bobby Singer, who in turn recommended the Winchesters.

Less than a day later, Hardwick had her cornered with an electric hair dryer suspended over her bath water, when two tall, determined and ridiculously handsome guys blasted their way in, armed with salt-loaded shotguns.

The spirit had vanished in a cloud of hot salt, and the hairdryer would have fried the poor woman if not for Dean's 'batman reflexes' – Dean's words, not Sam's.

In an admittedly spectacularly athletic display, he'd leapt forward and caught it in an outstretched hand, just above the waterline.

Kimberly's eyes had crossed and she'd slumped into a dead faint.

A brief argument between the brothers over who would deal with the wet, naked, unconscious lady, led to a hurried round of 'rock paper scissors'.

Dean lost, as usual.

While a sulky Dean kept watch for Hardwick, Sam, red faced with embarrassment, carried the wet, naked, unconscious lady into her bedroom and attempted to gently bring her round. Realising how it might look if she woke up, still naked, with a complete stranger hovering over her, he'd decided to do the decent thing, and in so doing revealed his own previously undiscovered talent: Drying off and dressing someone while keeping one's eyes firmly closed was an art form, and Sam was a master at it.

An hour later, sitting at the kitchen table, dressed in a bathrobe covering her pyjamas, and towel wrapped round her head, Kimberly had explained all about her not-so-dearly departed, abusive ex-husband…

Which had led Sam and Dean to this.

Sam poured the rest of his beer away. The alcohol wasn't helping his headache.

"You ready to hit the road?" he called out and winced. He hadn't meant for his voice to be so loud, and it sent a shockwave of pain through his skull.

Dean pulled his cell phone out, peered at the cracked screen, blinked heavily and grinned crookedly up at Sam.

"M'phone's screwed," he replied, vaguely. "Ghosty broke it." He frowned and pouted like a five year old. "Bad ghosty!"

"We'll get you a new one, dude," Sam told him, soothingly. _After you've slept off the concussion._

"Yeeeah? With… with int'net and all? So I can wassssh porrrn?"

Sam fought a smile. "_Wash_ porn? Sure. Anything you want." He added, gently. "Let's just get outta here, huh?"

"Sammy?"

Licking his lips and biting off a sigh, Sam raised an eyebrow, "Yeah?"

"Why's there two of ya?"

This time, Sam smiled sympathetically. "Guess I'm driving, huh?"

Dean squinted and swayed. "'Cos if there's two of ya, that means I got me a spare Sammy."

He swayed again, heading for a face plant, but Sam stepped in and caught his shoulder just in time.

"Easy, tiger," he murmured, manhandling his brother over to the car and, after some fumbling and cursing, into the passenger seat.

Shoulders slumped with weariness and head aching like a sonofabitch, Sam trudged around to the driver's side and slid behind the wheel.

"You want pizza tonight, dude?" he asked as he turned the key in the ignition. "Assuming you're up to it, of course."

When no answer came, Sam turned his head, expecting to see his brother out cold. He was in for a shock.

Dean was staring back at him, eyes red and angry, fists clenched and raised, ready to strike.

"I saw you with her," he hissed, nostrils flaring, the skin around his eyes, nose and mouth scrunched up with sheer hate. "I _saw_ how you looked at her, how you _touched_ her. She was _naked_. The little slut was naked for _me_, not you! She's mine! No one else's!"

"Dean…" Sam tried, but a shaking hand grabbed him by the shirt front and yanked hard, until Dean was right in his face, breathing hot breath and last night's fried onions on him.

"Let go…"

He was cut off by the other hand snaking round his throat and pressing down hard with inhuman strength.

"_No one gets to touch her but me, you bastard!_"

It dawned on Sam very quickly just how bad this was. Hardwick had possessed his brother, and there was no reasoning with him.

"Let… go of me," Sam gasped, and futilely tried to struggle out of the ghost's hold. "And… let go of my brother!"

The minor act of rebellion earned him a broken nose and added to his brewing concussion. His throat was being slowly crushed and his lungs felt like they were on fire. Lifesaving air eluded him, and his vision became crowded with black dots.

"S-stop…" his mouth formed the word but no sound came out.

"Fuck you!" Hardwick bellowed and Sam tried not to flinch as spittle flew and sprayed over him. "You don't tell me what to do!"

The grip on Sam's throat loosened a little with the ghost's psychotic tirade, and when he leaned back Sam knew he didn't have much time left before the next attack.

He gulped and fumbled for the door handle. "Dean, I know you're in there. Please, you have to fight this…"

Hardwick roared in Dean's voice, grabbed the side of Sam's head and slammed it against the side window in time to a litany of "Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you…!"

The glass cracked and eventually smashed, but Hardwick carried on pounding Sam's head against the door frame. It didn't matter much by that point because Sam had lost count after the third strike, which was around the time he lost consciousness altogether.

* * *

Bobby was busy soldering an LED in place on a circuit board, when he stopped for the fifth time in thirty minutes, eyed the phone and huffed. The boys were supposed to have checked in with him as soon as Hardwick was taken care of, and that should've been a few hours ago.

It was no big deal. Salt and burns don't always go strictly according to plan, and the spirit nearly always fights 'til the very end. Bobby had seen enough simple jobs go awry to know that, but he had a distinctly bad feeling about this one.

An hour later, he gave in, picked up the phone and dialled.

Dean's cell went straight to voicemail. Bobby frowned, tried Sam's number instead and was on the verge of giving up after the eighth ring, when someone finally answered.

"Sam?" Bobby said, softly, when there was nothing but silence. "You ok?"

"Bobby?" said a voice, hesitantly, as though trying out the name for the first time.

Bobby's frown deepened. _Something's wrong here._

"Dean? That you? I tried your cell but got voicemail. Everything ok? Where's your brother?"

There came a long pause. Then:

"Sam's asleep, and my phone's busted."

A theory was taking shape in Bobby's head, and he didn't like it.

"Everything go ok with the Hardwick job? When you boys comin' home?"

Dean let out a long breath. "Yeah, uh… Sam ain't feeling too good, so it'll be a while before we hit the road again."

Bobby nodded to himself. It pretty much confirmed his suspicions, but he decided on just one last push.

"That's a damn shame, given your birthday's tomorrow, son," he replied, all kindness and disappointment. "I made a cake with candles and everything."

This was the ultimate test. If this truly was Dean 'pie-hole' Winchester then Bobby was about to get his ass verbally kicked for the insult.

Dean's nervous laugh had him twitching.

"Sounds real good, Dad. Maybe put it on ice for when we come home later next week."

Well, what dya know? A triple faux pas, and bold as brass. Bobby's hand clenched tight around the phone, knuckles white and straining.

_Cake? Really? Since when?_

_Ain't Dean's birthday 'til January, you sick sonofabitch, and as much as I'd liked to be I sure ain't his 'dad' either!_

Hardwick might have been sick but he was lacking somewhat in the brains department. What kind of idiot switched from using Christian names to 'Dad' in the same conversation, anyhow?

Bobby corralled his fear and anger, and remained calm. "Next week you say? I'll look forward to it. You take care, son. And I'll see you both real soon."

He hung up before Dean could answer.

"Balls!" Bobby yelled out, and swept the worktop clear of circuit boards, components and soldering iron. They clattered across the floor of the kitchen, leaving a cooling silvery trail. "What the hell you done with my boys, you bastard?!"

As expected, the house and salvage yard met his demands with silence.

He stood there, breathing hard, fists clenched at his sides a good five minutes, until a light bulb went on above his head.

"Of course," he growled, and headed to the study, where his old, beaten up computer sat idle, gathering dust.

He swiped a hand down the screen and turned it on.

As soon as it finished booting up, Bobby huffed on his hands and rubbed them together.

"Now, let's see…"

The brothers had once showed him how to track cell phones using GPS, but that had been a while ago. However, Bobby was a fast learner and had a better memory than most civilians gave him credit for.

Within minutes, he had Sam's cell location.

He had one last phone call to make.

"Kimberly? Bobby Singer, here. You still have anything of Hardwick's left lying around? A keepsake maybe?"

The young woman was silent for almost too long and Bobby had to stop himself from yelling again.

"Uh… yeah? I still have the wedding and engagement rings he gave me," she sounded a little self-conscious and stunned. "I removed them the night he was arrested and stored them away in the back of my jewellery box. I guess I just forgot all about them."

Bobby rolled his eyes but silently reminded himself that she was a civilian and probably wouldn't have known any better.

"Ok. Listen up," he told her, firmly. "You got an open fireplace? Good. Go light it. Get it real hot then use it to destroy those rings. Make sure they melt completely before putting the fire out. You hear me? If you don't then your ex-husband will come back for you, and there'll be no stopping him this time."

"Ab-absolutely," Kimberly stammered, fearfully, but didn't ask any questions, thankfully. "I'm on it."

"Good girl," Bobby praised shortly, then hung up.

Within the hour, he was high tailing it out of the salvage yard with enough of an arsenal hidden in his truck to thrill and excite the Navy Seals.

_Hold on, boys._

* * *

Kimberly gazed in despair at the fireplace in her living room.

_Shitty shit, shit._

It hadn't been used _ever_. The reason being, it was now effectively a _fake_ fireplace. She and her fiancé hadn't known that when they moved in, and hadn't gotten around to trying it out. But now, ducked down under the mantel piece and staring upwards, she saw that the chimney had clearly been bricked up long ago, and the real estate guy had failed to mention that little fact when he sold it to the young couple.

It crossed her mind to be angry because that was one of the major selling points of the house, but this was no time for a tantrum.

"Shit," she breathed again, and tried not to panic.

Biting her lip, she went through her options.

"Bonfire. Back yard."

She'd always been known as the resourceful one out of all her siblings, after all, so she ran to the French windows at the back of the house, wrenched them open, and stopped short when a thought occurred to her.

"No wood. No kindling." Kimberly nearly sobbed out loud, but then her eye caught sight of an old shed at the bottom of the garden.

It was made of wood.

It was also rotting to pieces and there hadn't been any rain in weeks.

A fire should catch nicely.

She stalked towards it with a determined look on her face.

_**TBC…**_

_**This is merely my 'back to writing' fic so please excuse its lameness.**_

_**I'm still working on that dark story I promised you back before Christmas, and I'm hoping it won't be too much longer. I warn you now that it has turned a little weird, and there is some silliness in the plot which you'll have to forgive me for.**_

_**I apologise for my rather long absence from fan fiction due to serious illness; I'm still not one hundred per cent as yet, but I am gradually getting back on track. I was diagnosed with ulcerative colitis earlier this year. It recently flared up and went systemic on me, causing all kinds of complications, the most serious of which was perimyocarditis, and wound up in hospital for a while. **_

_**I was told by cardiology it is considered to be similar to but more painful than a mild heart attack. Not fun.**_

_**I'm still in a lot of discomfort and on some powerful pain killers, so some of my stories could get VERY weird, I warn you now. Enjoy.**_

_**Love and hugs,**_

_**ST xxx**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Domestic Spirit**

**Chapter Two**

Sam came to with a muffled groan, his head pounding, stomach rolling and pitching alarmingly.

Bile pooled in his mouth, making things worse.

"Don't wanna be sick, now," came a smug, familiar voice from nearby. "Can't have you choking on your own vomit before we've had some fun, _huh_ Sam?"

"Mmmph," was all Sam could manage. His mouth was well and truly taped up, elbows and wrists firmly bound together behind the chair, ankles to the chair legs. Several layers of Duct tape was wound round his chest and stomach, anchoring his torso to the chair back. He wriggled and struggled only briefly before nausea threatened him again, but it was enough to tell him he wasn't going anywhere. Not without help.

He glanced all around through half-closed eyes, seeing only dark blurry shapes and shadows.

"Mmph, mmph," he articulated again, head lolling on his neck.

By the feel of things he'd taken quite a beating recently, to his head, face and ribs, and he couldn't quite recall when or why, until someone stepped forward into his line of sight.

Green eyes sparkled when a flashlight clicked on.

Sam gasped through his nose as the light sent shards of pain through his head. He groaned again, louder this time.

"Hey there," said Dean, with a grin. "Remember me? Your _brother?_"

Sam blinked wearily and sat rigid in his bonds.

_Yeah, I remember you, you bastard._

Hardwick.

_Not_ Dean.

"Now, I'm no expert," Hardwick continued, loving the fury on Sam's face. "But I'm guessing you've got yourself a skull fracture there. Wait!" He appeared to be listening to something, or someone. Then he nodded. "Yeah, that's what Dean tells me. Or rather," his grin widened. "That's what Dean's trying to tell _you: _

'_You're badly hurt Sammy, so don't try to move, and stay awake. Helps coming…_"

sound familiar?" His smirk was just plain nasty and looked all kinds of wrong on Dean.

Sam growled and huffed angrily through his nose.

"I don't know what kind of help he's talking about. _Dad_ maybe?" he laughed out loud when Sam's eyes filled with fear. "He called earlier by the way, asking after you, but he ain't gonna do you much good, 'cos this is the end of the line, kid. Ain't nobody gonna find you down here." Hardwick studied his young captive with sick glee. "Think I'll hold on to your brother for a while, though. I can have me some real fun 'til I've finished with him. I'll let him say goodbye to you first, though. Let him watch you die, nice and slow." He was listening again. "Wow. That's quite the mouth your brother's got there. Maybe I'll use his suggestions when I off you."

Black goo oozed from Dean's ear and down his chin.

Ectoplasm.

Great.

Sam once again felt bile rushing up his throat and barely manage to swallow it down before it choked him. An embarrassing whimper escaped, squeezing out from underneath the duct tape like a tiny puppy fart, and it only made Hardwick laugh all the harder.

"Oh, don't you worry, kiddo," he said, grabbing a dirty strip of thick cloth up from the floor. "I won't kill you today. I'm not nearly finished with you yet."

He moved in behind Sam's chair and leaned down to whisper in his ear.

"Maybe I'll make you my bitch. Haven't decided yet. Gonna go find my loving wife, take her pretty ass hard and fast, and then maybe I'll try you on for size… if you survive that head injury for long enough, that is." He chuckled, Dean's normally soothing voice now warped and ugly. "You'd be amazed at what I learned in prison."

Sam wanted to fight, to twist and struggle, but any movement made him sick as a dog. He moaned softly when Hardwick wrapped the dirty cloth over his eyes, knotting it tightly at the back of his head.

"Oh, and just in case you do manage to get out of all that tape…"

Sam heard the familiar jangle of handcuffs seconds before he felt cold metal surround both his wrists.

"Now you know how it feels to be truly helpless, _bitch!"_

With the cuffs in place, Hardwick gave them a firm yank, perhaps to test their give and strength but more likely for the show of it, leaving yet more bruises in his wake. Satisfied, he patted Sam on the shoulder.

"Be back soon, kid. Don't go anywhere now, huh?"

Even under the blindfold, Sam could tell that the flashlight had been switched off again. He listened helplessly as his captor's sick laughter was cut off by what sounded like concrete grating on concrete, followed by a loud slam.

A soft metallic _clunk_ told him he was well and truly locked down.

His spinning head picked up speed, leaving him feeling faint and woozy. He struggled weakly for long minutes, perhaps hours, movements sluggish and painful, until his body was soaked in sweat and his mind a mess. He tried to find a weak spot in his tight bindings, but Hardwick had been way too thorough, borderline obsessive, and there was no way out.

Help might have been on the way but there was no guarantee he'd be found in time. Sam sighed tiredly through his nose; he knew better than to fall asleep with a serious head injury, but eventually exhaustion and pain left him with no choice, and he promptly passed out.

Given what was coming, what Hardwick threatened to do to him once he got back, death might be the better alternative.

* * *

Bobby crept towards the run down graveyard storage shed and peered through the trees. He'd only spotted it by chance, it was so well concealed.

He'd followed Sam's GPS signal all the way to the cemetery, where he found the Impala in a ditch. There was little damage – one less Winchester to worry about - indicating it had been deliberately rolled there rather than crashed, but the smashed driver's window was spotted with blood.

Bobby swallowed down his rising fear and made a call.

Further inspection revealed Sam's cell phone abandoned in the passenger foot well.

After conducting a thorough search of the grounds, Bobby had stumbled upon the old cemetery shed, almost completely hidden by creeping ivy and honeysuckle, at the far end by the older sector. The graves, here, dated way back to the late 1800s, so no one was likely to visit and leave flowers, and any disturbance would probably go unnoticed.

A newer, larger tool shed had been constructed nearer the more recent part of the cemetery, leaving the ancient one to its own devices. Nature had soon claimed it for her own.

The old shed ticked all the boxes as a reasonable place to hold someone against their will. At least, Bobby hoped that was the case. He wouldn't consider any other possibilities.

He stiffened up briefly when he heard the shed door rattle. Someone was coming out.

Moving smoothly into position nearby, Bobby waited, butt of his pistol in hand and raised.

The door opened and Dean came into view, a twisted grin on his face and he turned to lock up behind him.

Singer took a nanosecond to study him. Sure, he looked like Dean, even sounded like him, humming a tune Bobby faintly recognised as 'Firestarter'.

The Prodigy?

The older hunter's eyes narrowed with certainty. He'd heard it enough times back in the late '90s, when some young wannabe mechanic brought his beat up old Pontiac Firebird to the yard for a restoration job. The music lasted two days before Bobby threatened violence if he had to listen to it again.

And that tune was totally wrong coming from Dean Winchester. It wasn't the only clue, but it was a good start.

Bobby pounced before the key could turn in the lock, and brought the pistol butt down on the back of Dean's head.

"Sorry, kid," Bobby muttered, catching and gently lowering the younger man to the grass. He quickly checked Dean's breathing, then his head, and felt relieved that he hadn't hurt the guy too badly. Dean would be out for just long enough, maybe.

Bobby decided to check up on Kimberly and flipped open his cell.

"Yeah, it's me again," he said, softly, eyes darting round the graveyard to make certain no one was watching. "You got that fire going yet?"

He listened briefly. "Ok, go ahead and throw them in when it's hot enough. Remember to stick around and make sure, then call me when you're done."

Ending the call, Bobby reached into his jacket pocket for a set of iron manacles, and began chaining Dean's wrists and ankles.

"Won't be for long, son," he murmured, fixing the last one in place. "Just until that bastard Hardwick's gone for good."

He wasted no more time barging his way into the shed, and stopped short, gazing around in dismay.

_Sonofabitch…_

It was empty. No Sam.

"Might've known it'd be too damn easy!" Bobby fumed and pulled out his cell phone again.

"Kimberly!" He barked. "Get those rings outta the fire right now!"

* * *

Bobby glared at Hardwick. "Alright you sick bastard, where is he?"

He'd shut them inside the old shed out of the way of possible prying ears and eyes, shoved Dean to the back of the shed and onto the floor, and waited impatiently for him to come round again.

That achieved, Bobby was now trying, unsuccessfully so far, to find out where the bastard had taken Sam.

Dean's handsome face split into the all familiar shit-eating grin that usually made Bobby roll his eyes with fond frustration. But this one was lacking something. It was all _wrong._

And it wasn't fooling Bobby for an instant.

"Well? You wanna tell me now? Or should I wait for your ex-wife to get here?"

"Oh, by all means," said Hardwick, licking Dean's lips obscenely. "Saves me coming to find the ungrateful bitch." He chuckled and looked slyly at Bobby through lust-blown eyes. "You can join in, ya know? I'm not greedy. In fact, I'll do you a deal. Once we're done with her, I get to fuck your precious _Sammy, _and then you can send me on my merry way. Can't say fairer than that. Everyone gets what they want; I get to have fun one last time; you can have my wife; Kimmy, Sammy and Dean are all alive, even if they ain't exactly in one piece…" He tilted Dean's head, smugly. "What ya say ol'man? Sound good?"

Bobby's eyed narrowed with disgust, but he ignored the filth coming from Dean's mouth in favour of the more important part.

"What you mean 'ain't exactly in one piece'?" he grabbed Dean's collar and shook him hard. "What the hell you done with Sam? If you've hurt that kid I swear to God…"

"You'll what?" Hardwick interrupted him, smugly. "You can't hurt me, Bobby. Not without hurting _Dean_."

A woman's voice came from just outside. "Mr Singer? You here somewhere?"

"In here, Kimberly," Bobby called out.

Hardwick sat up straight, beaming from ear to ear. "This should be good."

Bobby opened the shed door, admitting the young woman, while never taking his eyes off Dean.

"Wow, babe, you're looking real hot these days," Hardwick commented with a snide grin. "You got your hair done different, lost some weight... That for your new man was it? The one who's brains I bashed in at the altar?"

Kimberly's mouth tightened but she didn't say a word to her ex.

"I got what you asked for," she said, calmly to Bobby.

"Aw, baby! Ain't you gonna say hello? Not even a kiss for your dear husband?"

Bobby nodded at Kimberly. "Show 'im."

Blue eyes flashing with hate and fear, Kimberly pulled out the wedding and engagement rings from her jacket pocket.

Hardwick dropped his smug attitude immediately.

"What ya gonna do with those?" he demanded to know, suddenly sounding nervous.

Kimberly once again didn't utter a word and Bobby had to admire the woman's restraint. Instead, she let her hands do all the talking by pulling a small industrial strength blow torch from her purse.

"I asked you a question, you dumb bitch!" Hardwick raged and began kicking out with his chained feet.

Ignoring the cursing and insults from his captive, Bobby smiled grimly, reached over and stuffed a bandana in Dean's mouth. "Go ahead, Kim."

Kim placed the rings on the floor out of Hardwick's reach, and lit the torch. She stood there, awaiting Bobby's command, torch flame aimed downwards.

"Now, I'm gonna ask you one last time," said Bobby, in a low, threatening voice. "Where. Is. Sam?"

Hardwick swivelled his furious gaze between Kim, Bobby and the rings alternately.

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "You gonna answer this time? Or ya gonna mess us around? 'Cos while you think you might be safe, that we won't finish you off 'til we find Sam, don't make the mistake in thinking we can't hurt you."

To emphasise the point, Kim knelt down closer to the rings and let the blue flame just lick at them for a second.

Hardwick gasped in pain and shock, then nodded frantically, small muffled whimpers coming from the makeshift gag.

"And to think, she barely touched you," Bobby sneered and pulled the bandana out. "Now start talkin', and no stallin'."

Hardwick smacked his lips and huffed. "Ok, ok, but you promise you'll let me go? You won't destroy the rings?"

"Fair enough," Bobby replied, impatiently. "Now _where?_ And don't test me again, or the rings get it!"

"Fine!" Hardwick sighed in defeat. "See that concrete hatchway in the corner? Just pull it up and you'll find an old storage space underneath. Sam's in there."

He grinned, suddenly, all smug and carefree. "Kid's probably dead by now, though, given how I bashed his fool head in earlier."

Bobby fought down the urge to viciously backhand the bastard, and stalked over to the left side of the old shed.

Sure enough there was a slab of concrete with a brass ring embedded in it.

He glanced over at Hardwick. "He'd better be there, and he'd better be alive or I swear, Dean or no Dean, I'll make your after-life hell on earth, you evil fucker!"

He stormed back over and stuffed the bandana back in Dean's mouth, then returned to his task. Hardwick actually shrank back against the wall, seeking cover, the bully finally put in his place by someone more badass than him.

Bobby grabbed on to the brass ring. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the slab up and aside, and peered down into a small dark space. There was a thin, wooden stairwell leading downwards that looked safe enough.

"Sam? You down here, kid?"

There was no answer and Bobby somehow didn't expect one.

He rummaged in his jacket pocket for a small penlight and lowered himself into the hatchway. He paused for a second to offer Kimberly a piece of advice.

"Whatever you do, don't go near him, and don't let him anywhere near you," he warned her.

"Oh don't you worry," she said, mouth twisted with disgust. "I don't ever wanna get near him again." She touched the torch to the rings again, and seemed delighted by the muffled screams. "That's for five years of abuse and cheating… and the bruises… and the humiliation… and the controlling… _for taking my fiancé away from me and ruining my life you bastard!_"

Bobby left her to it without a word, figuring the woman had earned the right to a little payback after all this time. He descended the wooden stairs slowly, shining the penlight ahead and all around, but it wasn't until he got to the bottom that the tiny beam fell on a beaten and bloodied figure, gagged, blindfolded and tied to a chair.

Bobby's heart sank. "Oh shit…"

_**TBC…**_

_**Many thanks for all your wonderful reviews and messages of support. They are most heart-warming to read and mean the world to me.**_

_**Next chapter up very soon.**_

_**Hope you all had a lovely weekend.**_

_**Love and hugs,**_

_**ST xxx**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Domestic Spirit**

**Chapter Three**

It was Sam, alright, covered in blood and almost mummified in duct tape. In fact, it seemed like an entire separate roll of the stuff had been wound round his head and over his mouth.

Bobby stood there staring at him, shocked and horrified.

"Jesus," he breathed.

Jolting back into rescue mode, he stumbled forward, one hand reaching for the pulse point on Sam's neck, the other still holding up the tiny penlight and trying to remove the blindfold at the same time. To his tremendous relief, the boy was still alive, if in a bad way, and he obviously needed medical attention sooner rather than later.

As he shifted round to check Sam's bonds, his foot kicked against something on the floor, and when he looked down he saw a heavy duty flashlight.

Just what he needed.

He reached down and flicked the switch, lending a sharper, brighter glow to the underground storage room.

"Oh, Sam…" Bobby got a better look at the poor kid and was nearly sick.

Sam was beaten to a pulp and now that the blindfold was gone, revealing blackened eyes and a broken nose, Bobby could see shards of blood caked bone fragments sticking up out of the kid's hair. Assuming Dean had been conscious during Hardwick's possession, he'd have had a front row seat to all this, and Bobby hated to think about the effect it would have on the guy's emotional state if he remembered any of it.

"Dammit!" Untamed fury roared through him, and without further ado he spun on his heel and yelled up the stairs. "Kim? Light 'im up!"

He heard a distant, muffled noise that might have been a "What? Noooo! You promised!" followed by a _whoomph_, an unworldly shriek, and then silence.

Bobby poked his head up over the hatchway and eyed Dean's unmoving form. "You with me kid?" he said, softly.

Dean slowly turned his head, looking dazed but furious, and managed to convey with his eyes that if the gag wasn't removed soon he was gonna do some violence.

Bobby grinned, weakly.

"Yep, you're the Dean we know and love, alright," he nodded to Kim and threw her a set of keys. "Let him out of those chains. He's fine."

"Sure thing," Kim nodded, turned off the blow torch, and moved cautiously across the shed.

Holding out his chained wrists, Dean shook his head, still understandably dazed. Kim gently removed the cloth from his mouth and offered him a worried and sympathetic smile while she worked on the manacles, but Dean ignored her for more important issues.

"Bobby? Sam…" he croaked. "Sam… with you?"

The older hunter looked back at Dean. "You'd better get down here, son," he said, sadly. "And brace yaself for this, 'cos it's real bad. Sammy's gonna need ya."

Seconds after Bobby disappeared back down the hatchway, Dean was free and scrambling across the room after him, yelling out for his little brother. Panic lent him a burst of energy, spurring on his urgent need to find Sam before it was too late.

"Sammy? Sam?" Dean took the stairs in one go, practically landing on top of Bobby Singer and leap frogging over him.

When confronted with a bloodied mess tied to a chair, he stopped and gaped.

"Oh God," he choked out, feeling dizzy and sick. "Bobby, what the hell have I done to him? Oh God, Sammy…"

Bobby grabbed his arm and gave him a good, hard shake. "Don't you dare start that shit! It wasn't you, it was that bastard Hardwick! You hearin' me, kid? NOT. YOU!"

Dean was virtually hyperventilating, on the verge of hysteria, eyes still trained on his broken brother, until Bobby shook him again.

"_Stop it. _The kid don't need you freakin' out on 'im right now," said Bobby, roughly, then more softly this time when Dean blinked at him: "You ok?"

The younger man swallowed, took a deep breath and nodded, noticeably calmer by now.

"Is he…?" He whispered, nearly choked on the words, cleared his throat, and tried again. "Bobby, tell me he's still alive."

It was a valid question, given the state Sam was in.

Bobby palmed his shoulder in support. "Yep, he's alive, alright, but he needs help. Kim's gonna call an ambulance while we cut the kid free, ok?"

Dean didn't need telling twice. He dropped to a crouch by Sam's side and began tugging at the duct tape, silent tears streaming down his face.

"Here," a hunting knife appeared in front of him, handle outwards. "You might need this. I think Hardwick had a duct tape fetish 'cos he must've used about a dozen rolls of the stuff on Sam."

Dean nodded and began cutting through the tape without another word.

It took a good ten minutes at least just to get the stuff off his face, leaving red marks where the tape had irritated his skin. Bobby took over releasing his wrists from the cuffs because Dean's hands were shaking too much by this stage.

When Dean and Bobby eventually cut Sam completely free, the kid began tilting helplessly to one side. Dean gently caught him before he could fall and swore angrily when he saw the vivid finger shaped bruises round Sam's neck. By the time the ambulance crew arrived Dean was shaking violently from head to toe. From fear or anger he wasn't certain.

Probably both.

Holding Sam's limp body in his arms, Dean gently brushed a few blood encrusted locks of hair out of the kid's face, and cupped the back of his head.

"It's gonna be ok, Sammy," he told him, brokenly. "Please... just hang on for me. I'm so sorry..."

He vaguely heard Bobby talking to someone in the background, apparently introducing himself as an FBI agent and spinning some story about a kidnapping ring. But Dean was content to concentrate mostly on his brother, only half listening in, until a gentle hand on his shoulder distracted him.

"Let us take it from here on in, son," said the EMT, kindly. Sensing Dean's reluctance, he added. "We'll look after him, I promise."

It was hard letting Sam go, handing him over to the care of complete strangers, but his face was too pale underneath all that blood and those horrific bruises, his breathing too shallow and uneven.

Kid was probably safer with the strangers than with his older brother, anyhow…

Dean was unhappy but resigned. He allowed the medics to take his brother from him, but stayed close by, watching everything they did with unease.

"..._he_ was also kidnapped and injured, but managed to escape and get help. Probably in shock so best get him checked out," Bobby murmured, pointing in Dean's general direction.

Once Sam was secured onto a stretcher, fitted with an IV, neck brace and oxygen mask, Dean took one of his hands in a fierce grip and whispered shakily into the kid's ear. No one could hear what he told Sam, and no one was supposed to.

More discussion went on in the background, and it sounded like Bobby was advising the crew not to separate the brothers with a 'your very lives depend on it. Trust me.'

Dean blinked when the world around him began fading out, and his knees buckled.

Strong hands caught him before he could hit the deck and someone frantically yelled for another stretcher.

Overcome with shock, exhaustion and his own injuries, Dean shut down hard and fast and didn't come back on line again until the end of the week.

* * *

Starched linen scratched his chin, and something pinched at his arm.

Dean came slowly awake, blinking and staring all around him, eyes wide with confusion.

There was a needle in his arm and a big bastard at that, no doubt the cause of the pinching. He stared at it long and hard, nose twitching. The classic, medicinal scent of 'hospital' registered somewhere in his befuddled brain, but a faint, bleeping noise took centre stage. Try as he might, he couldn't locate the source and figured it must've been coming from the bed next to his.

But he couldn't see the bed because of the tired looking beard sat next to him.

"You ok?" the beard grunted.

Dean blinked again, still bewildered, though the fog of sleep was starting to clear. Bobby Singer looked uncomfortable as hell in that plastic chair, back awkwardly bent, elbows on knees, chin resting on clasped hands.

Wrinkled, age-spotted hands that were calloused from a hard life spent saving others. Including Sam and Dean, many times over.

It seemed this time was no different.

"Uh… y-yeah, I think," Dean muttered, and slowly struggled into a sitting position.

Bobby was frowning slightly, eyes narrowed with worry.

"Sure?" he asked, one brow raised, sceptically.

Dean nodded and, as his senses continued gradually returning to him, began scouting the room, head swivelling, frantic eyes searching for something. Or someone.

"Where is he?" he whispered, voice hoarse from a near weeks' worth of dormancy.

The older hunter sighed quietly and shifted slightly to his left.

"He's right here."

When Sam's still figure came into view Dean barely concealed his gasp. The kid's head and neck were heavily bandaged, his face still frighteningly pale, eyes swollen and almost black from the beatings. There were stitches here and there, sealing cuts large and small, and a white plastic splint spanned the kid's nose.

He looked dead. Or at least very close to it.

And there was the source of the annoying bleeping noise. Dean might have known his little brother was at the centre of it. Sticky pads dotted the kid's chest, along with deep, dark, fist shaped bruises. Insulated wire leads, twisted and tangled round each other like snakes in a pit, connected to a monitor showing green lines and curves that dipped and pitched in time to Sam's heartbeat.

"He's alive," murmured Dean, part of him not quite able to believe it. "I thought… back in the graveyard… for a minute there…"

_I thought I was gonna lose him._

He shook his head, clearing the last vestiges of sleep, and battling against the heavy cloak of guilt. Distorted memories crept up on him, vying gleefully for first place. Faded, broken images of pounding Sam's head into the driver's window; hands wrapped tight around Sam's throat and squeezing the very breath out of him; smashing the poor kid's face, the sickening crack as something broke under his fist, fists that unmercifully pummelled his little brother's limp and vulnerable form...

Worst of all, those scared, wounded hazel eyes staring accusingly out at him from over the duct tape.

Dean shuddered and pushed the images away. There'd be time to confront them later.

Much, much later.

"Has he woken up yet?" he asked, tentatively.

"No, but don't you fret, kid," Bobby was quick to reassure when he saw the look on Dean's face. "The coma's medically induced. Sam's doctors thought it would be better for his recovery."

Dean nodded, absently, and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Yeah," he muttered, unhappily. "Yeah, I get that."

Sam was a fidget, always had been, likely always will be. Over the years, he'd suffered broken ribs, limbs, and even a fractured spine, but he still couldn't stop himself wriggling and moving around. In fact, he'd spent several months in traction for the spinal injury, and had almost broken the damn equipment in a desperate bid to reach an itch on his left knee.

Nothing could keep him immobile better than the full on, heavy duty knock-out drugs.

And though the cannular running under Sam's nose was an unwelcome sight, Dean wasn't going to complain. After all, it was nothing short of a miracle that his brother could breathe at all.

Grateful there were no weird looking tubes sticking out of Sam's mouth, Dean was prepared to lick God's boots and kiss heaven's ass if such payment was ever required of him.

But still… his gaze roamed the length of Sam's bruised and beaten form. Felt his guilt and anger stirring once again. Hardwick hadn't paid nearly enough.

If Sam didn't make it…

"He's gonna be ok," Bobby spoke up, gently, as though reading his mind. "They say he should make a full recovery, provided he takes it slow and easy over the next few months."

Dean swallowed hard and took a few deep, slow breaths. "When they planning on bringing him round?" he asked, finally.

Bobby shrugged. "There was talk of later on next week. The skull fracture was the worst injury – took damn hours of surgery to fix. They're worried about waking him up too soon. Ya know, before he's ready? It could be dangerous for 'im." He studied Dean's stricken face and tried for something more light hearted. "And besides, he could use the sleep. Damn kid's practically an insomniac when he's on a hunt."

A twitch at the corner of the older brother's mouth told Bobby he'd partly succeeded.

Bobby didn't mention that he'd drunk the waiting room coffee dispenser dry during the time Sam spent in the OR. Nor did he mention the deep path he'd worn in the floor from pacing up and down, while the entire hospital wing had been awash of terrified shouting from the panicking doctors and nurses when the kid crashed. The bleeping noises of the defibrillator, the "Charge. Clear...", followed by the thump and whine of the paddles...

Under a week later, those noises still haunted him. He figured Dean didn't need to know about that. There was more than enough fear and guilt riding around for his liking, and the older brother was in no condition to deal with any more of it.

Dean bit his bottom lip, then started throwing back his blankets and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He needed to be closer to his little brother, watching his back and protecting him, like he should have that day at the graveyard.

"Whoa!" Bobby reached out to stop him, hands firmly gripping the younger guy's upper arms. "Just where in hell dya think you're going, Concussion Boy? You took a fair beating yaself; now, get back in bed right this damn minute!"

Dean glared at him. "I'm gonna sit with Sam," an eyebrow rose in clear challenge. "You gonna try stopping me?"

Bobby crossed his arms and met that glare with one of his own. "You betcha I will!"

The two men faced off for long minutes, before the older one softened his stance a little.

He's_ just like his daddy. Godammed, stubborn sonofabitch..._

"Listen kid," he said, gruffly, barely keeping the frustration from his tone. "Sam's out of it; won't even know you're there, so what's another day or so in your own bed? You wanna be fit to take care of him when he does wake up, right?"

Dean nervously scratched his chest, feeling plagued with indecision, shaky fingers tangling in his blue, hospital issue tee-shirt. His head was beginning to ache, and his eyes were losing focus, the room swimming in a growing haze around him.

"I guess…" he finally relented, with a sigh. His tired gaze strayed to where Sam was laying unnervingly silent nearby, and tracked the comforting rise and fall of his chest.

"Keep an eye on the kid for me?" he pleaded, softly, without looking away from his brother.

Bobby grinned. "I got one eye on you, and one eye on him. Damn good job I got salt lines to take care of everythin' else."

That wasn't just lip service. Hardwick was gone, Bobby had made certain of that before heading out after the boys. But hospitals were tricky places where life and death decisions were made every day, and the Winchesters were strong magnets for supernatural freaks. It was always better to be safe than sorry where these two were concerned.

Dean returned the other man's grin. "You put down salt lines? Really? What did the nurses say to that?"

The older hunter looked a little smug. "I told 'em it was protection against demons and ghosts."

Dean gaped at him in disbelief. "You _what_ now?"

"Told 'em the truth," Bobby shrugged, unconcerned. "Didn't see no harm in it. They just think I'm your Crazy 'ol Uncle Bobby."

"Huh," said Dean, after some consideration, and flashed a brief smile of mischief. "That kinda fits better than what Sammy and I used to call you when we were kids."

Bobby shot him a sharp look. "And _that_ was?"

Dean grinned, tiredly. "Uncle Nutjob."

"Get some damn sleep," Bobby growled. "Idgit."

_**TBC…**_

_**Only one more chapter to go. Will Sam wake up? **_

_**Will Dean and Bobby survive if he doesn't?**_

_**Will Dean ever be able to get over what Hardwick made him do to Sammy?**_

_**Check back here to find out later this week in the final chapter, and don't forget to leave a review – makes all this hard work worth it.**_

_**Cheers everyone.**_

_**Love and hugs,**_

_**ST xxx**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Domestic Spirit**

**Chapter Four**

Days passed by in a blur of bad food, atrocious coffee, and not even one hot nurse, much to Dean's disgust. Daytime TV was the only form of entertainment, apart from watching Sam sleep, and if it weren't for Bobby's near constant presence Dean might have died of boredom.

"So, you know you boys are welcome at the yard while Sam recovers," Bobby remarked, between mouthfuls of Chinese takeout food.

Dean swallowed down some crispy chili beef, and grabbed up a honey and ginger rib.

"Thanks, Bobby," he replied, gratefully. "Appreciated." And stuffed his mouth with more food.

Bobby tilted his head to the side and studied both the boys.

Dean lounged in his chair with deceptive casualness beside Sam's bed, socked feet resting beside his brother's right hand, just inches away. That was the way it was, the older always within contact distance of the younger, just in case.

"No need to thank me, kid," Bobby murmured, simply. "Stay as long as you need to."

There was a whole world of unspoken love thrown into that statement, from _you're my boys, _to _I'm always here, _and Dean heard every word of it.

"By the way," continued Bobby. "That was some neat work back there."

"Huh?" Dean's mouth hung open questioningly, revealing a mass of chewed ribs and rice.

Bobby grimaced but chose to ignore it. "When I called Sam's cell, it was your voice on the other end of the line, but Hardwick gave himself away when I offered birthday cake." An eyebrow rose. "Last I heard you're still in love with pie, so I'm guessin' you had something to do with that."

Dean's grin was shaky. "I think so. Don't really remember too good. Guess I did what I could to lead him down the wrong path, so I could at least warn you something was up." He frowned, thoughtfully. "I think I told him you were our dad."

"Hmm," Bobby rumbled. "Well, it sure worked. Guy was stupid enough to fall for it, even though caller ID must've shown up my name. After all, how many people list their parents by Christian name in their cell contacts?"

Dean shrugged, and went back to his food. He'd always listed John Winchester under some kind of rock music pseudonym.

Bobby smiled knowingly, and dropped the subject. No point in poking at it any harder. There were more important things on the agenda.

The doctors would be waking Sam up at some point and, all being well, Dean had intended disappearing with him soon after, before the cops homed in on his little brother for a statement. Sam would have enough to deal with when he woke up, without being hounded by endless questions about his time in captivity. And as Bobby had already pointed out, there was no guarantee Sam would remember much, if anything at all.

Head injuries were tricky enough at the best of times, and Sam's had been trickiest of all.

The door to their room opened without warning, and a tired looking doctor peered in at them.

"We're going to start bringing Sam round now. You can stay so long as you promise to stand aside and give us room…"

* * *

The world came back, slowly but painfully.

"Heya Sammy."

The soft voice was filled with bright, over-enthusiastic cheer, barely covering the dark shadow of outright worry.

Sam moaned softly and winced. His head felt heavier than lead and a faint, throbbing, sickly ache pulled at him.

"D-Dean…" he whispered weakly on an exhale.

A warm hand gently cupped the back of his neck. This time the voice went an octave lower and softened even further. "Yeah, kiddo, it's me. Good to see you awake at last."

Sam struggled to open his eyes at first and, after a few frustrated attempts, managed to wrench them open to slits.

The room was dimly lit, a small reading light casting a comforting glow across Dean's pale face, and the minute Sam looked into his eyes he knew this was indeed his big brother.

Not Joel Hardwick. There was no way that rabid, evil spirit could project such genuine love, concern and guilt all in one glance.

Dean's smile was soft but Sam could read his tells; the licking of the lips, the clearing of his throat. His brother was nervous. Worried, mainly, but definitely nervous.

And sleep deprived. That much was obvious from the dark circles under his eyes.

Sam blinked slowly and cracked a tiny smile of his own. "Hey," he whispered back. "You look terrible, dude."

Dean's smile widened into a relieved grin. "Yeah," he replied, a shade sarcastically, clearly enjoying the first brotherly banter they'd had in way too long. "And you spent the past two weeks sitting for oil paintings."

Sam wrinkled his nose, feeling something shift and prod at his septum. "Lemme guess," he slurred. "Oxygen tube accessory. Big hit in the New York galleries, huh?"

His brother chuckled softly. "They're thinking of repainting the Mona Lisa because of you."

"Louvre," Sam pointed out, simply.

"What?" Dean looked puzzled.

Sam grinned, ignoring his incessant, growing headache. "She's in the Louvre, in Paris. Not New York."

Dean kept his face innocently blank, but his eyes gleamed with mischief. "Who is?"

"The Mona Lisa," Sam carefully avoided rolling his eyes, not sure he could take it in his current state without throwing up. "The Louvre. Big glass pyramid. Paris. That's in France, in case you didn't know."

Dean _did _roll his eyes. "I _know_ that, moron," he replied, smugly. "I watched the Da Vinci Code. Twice."

Sam snorted, softly. "I know for a fact you've watched it at least five times," he said. "Last time we saw it, you even kept up with the dialogue."

Banter over with, Dean's grin faded.

"You were awake a couple of times yesterday and earlier this morning, but not for long," he told him, withdrawing his hand a little, but not by far. His fingers still brushed lightly over the soft hair curling round Sam's ears. "How you feeling?"

Sam licked his dry lips. "Head hurts, but I'm mostly ok."

Dean's eyes narrowed and there was no mistaking the angry guilt that flashed through them. "Well, that's no surprise. I busted your skull real good." He finished on a shaky whisper: "It was bad fracture, Sammy."

Sam sighed. Dean carried enough on his shoulders as it was, and had done for most of his life, but up until today he'd always born his burdens with pride and strength. _Today_, he seemed broken by it all, and it wasn't a look that suited him.

He never had to say it; Sam knew Dean loved him and would give him the whole world if he asked. But there was only one thing Sam wanted from him at that moment.

He reached up and gently grasped Dean's wrist, giving it a small squeeze.

"_Hardwick_ busted my skull real good, dude," he stated as firmly as he could with a road drill hammering away inside his brain. "You were just dragged along for the ride. There was nothing you could do, Dean, so stop blaming yourself."

Dean blinked rapidly, eyes suddenly bright and wet. "I should have fought harder for you…"

"Remember Dr Ellicot at the asylum?" Sam said, suddenly.

Dean nodded, frowning at the apparent change in subject. "What's that got to do…?"

"I fought him, Dean," Sam stared up at him. "I fought him, and I fought the rage with everything I had, but it wasn't enough and I nearly killed you."

Dean looked away, ashamed. "Yeah, and I remember all the shit I gave you for it afterwards."

Sam smiled and squeezed Dean's wrist again. "But when we talked about it a few days later, you understood what happened, that I had no control, and you got over it," he waited for Dean to look at him again before continuing. "My point is, we've been through worse than this, and no doubt will again. This is nothing, and _we'll _get over it. Together, if you'll let me." His tired, pained gaze turned pleading. "Please?"

They stared at each other in silence.

"Duuude," Dean finally huffed out a small laugh. "Turn off the eyes, ok? I'm sold."

Sam grinned fondly, feeling his eyelids droop. Exhaustion was nosing its' way back in, and he had little left to say for himself. "Glad to hear it, jerk."

Dean's fingers curled around Sam's. "Get some more sleep, bitch. We're leaving tomorrow, if you're up to it."

* * *

They ended up staying another two days, as it turned out, because Sam was still way too fragile for travel. The truck was decked out in pillows and blankets, water, pain meds and clean bandages, ready and waiting for their departure. All three men were getting twitchy and nervous from staying in one place for too long.

Sam and Dean had used the time wisely, of course, by bickering and fighting over the TV remote, or arguing over who was cheating who at poker. Bobby privately concluded that it was pretty much six of one and half a dozen of the other. They were Winchesters after all.

In the quieter moments, the brothers had tried to thank him for coming to their rescue, but Bobby had just waved them off, and told them to "Shut the hell up, ya idgits."

Little more was discussed about Hardwick, until Kimberly showed up one afternoon with an envelope filled with cash and a hug for each of them.

Sam tried to turn the money down, but Kimberly, having grown tough and uncompromising after the harsh experiences of the past five years, insisted, and stuffed the envelope into Dean's jacket pocket.

An hour later, she left the hospital with a somewhat lighter heart, anxious to start her life all over again. This time free from abuse. She would never see her saviours again after that day, but they would always be remembered, with deep gratitude.

Tonight, Bobby watched his boys sleep, Sam in bed, Dean in the chair beside it, and silently thanked whatever deity was watching that the brothers were going to be ok. Over the years, he'd learned the hard way that paying one's respects for unexpected good fortune to unknown forces ranked high in the top ten of Prudent Hunting Practices.

But he wasn't going to push their luck. Word had gotten round that the police would be arriving tomorrow in hopes that Sam was fit for interview.

The three hunters would definitely be gone by then.

* * *

"Dude, I am _so_ up to it," Sam whined out.

Dean eyed him with frustration. "I'm not doing this again, Sam. Get in the damn chair."

"Nope. Not happening," Sam's sulky pout was beginning to get on Dean's nipples. "I can walk."

The kid was sitting on his bed, dressed in clean, faded jeans, a dark red tee-shirt and his scruffy old hoodie. There were just one or two things missing.

His bare feet swung back and forth. "Now gimme my damn socks and shoes so we can get the hell outta here."

"Nuhuh," said Dean and jiggled the wheelchair, pointedly. "Not 'til you sit your ass in this thing."

"Deeeean!"

His whining was becoming more and more petulant, and Dean was half tempted to turn the little-big brat over his knee.

"No way are we letting you walk outta here on your own two feet," he announced, sternly. "You only woke up a couple days ago, your noggin's still cracked, and you can barely move with those broken ribs. Now, _get in the damn chair!_"

Bobby cracked open the door a fraction. It was his job to keep a strict eye on the hallway in case anyone came looking for them, but it was kind of a moot point when the squabbling going on behind him was delaying their escape.

He couldn't help shaking his head. The brothers were equal parts frustrating and entertaining when they disagreed over the little things, but if it weren't for their recent injuries he might have been tempted to bang their damn heads together.

"Hey! Quit bitchin' and get on with it!" Bobby whispered loudly over his shoulder.

He listened in amusement to the scuffling noises and low, muttered curses as Dean helped a reluctant little brother into the hated wheelchair, then wrangled clean socks and brand new sneakers on to the kid's humungous feet.

"Here," Dean shoved a blanket at him. "It's cold outside."

Sam immediately pulled it over his head.

"Thanks," he said, voice comically muffled. "At least no one can see me in this thing, now."

"Sure," said Dean, rolling his eyes again. "'Cos that's _much_ less embarrassing."

"C'mon, you two," Bobby grumbled, good-naturedly. "Get a move on, before someone sees us. The doctors' rounds are in fifteen minutes, and they're supposed to be checking on Sam first, make sure he's well enough to make a statement for the cops."

A single eyeball peeked out from the folds of the blanket, wide and somewhat alarmed.

"You heard the man; _move_, for Christ's sake!" Sam whispered, that eye darting around in a panic. "We can't be here for that."

"No shit!" Dean tipped the wheelchair onto its back wheels and carefully swung it around, heading for the door. "Keep ya panties on, Victoria Secret."

He steadfastly ignored the answering "Up yours, Jerk!" and concentrated on listening for voices outside the room.

Bobby glanced at Dean, and nodded.

Two and a half pairs of eyes and a hospital blanket peered around the door, checking that the way was clear.

Once satisfied there was no one to witness their escape, they hurried out of the room and down the hallway as quickly as they could without drawing too much attention. It wasn't until they were outside the front entrance and heading for the parking lot that people started noticing the odd-looking, blanket wrapped form hunched down in the wheelchair, and when someone muttered something along the lines of "Is that a kidnapping in progress?" Dean sped up until he was almost running, Bobby lumbering along beside him.

"Where's Baby?" Dean hissed, looking around frantically and ignoring Sam's muffled snort.

"Already told ya... she's back at my place," Bobby puffed and panted. "Had her towed there… last week. She's safe… unlike us. My trucks over near the emergency access road."

"Good thinking, dude."

Bobby eyed him with disdain. "Gee thanks," he huffed out, sarcastically. "'Cos it's the first time I've done this… breakin' you two idgits outta hospital."

The blanket was pushed aside in a crackle of static, revealing Sam's bandaged head and long hair sticking up around his ears, like some kind of oversized troll doll.

"Won't be the last either," he said, then frowned up at Dean. "What are you laughing at?"

Dean shook his head and schooled his features as best he could. "Nothin', dude. Absolutely, nothin'."

Turning the wheelchair towards the truck, he winked at Bobby over his little brother's head.

Covering a smirk, Bobby opened the door to the cab. "Quit ya gassin' and get in. Let's go home."

Suddenly, the smile disappeared from Dean's face, replaced by something akin to gratitude which made Bobby feel stupidly warm inside.

"Thank you," Dean mouthed, and Bobby knew it was thanks for more than just a place to stay.

These two sure were gonna be a handful when he got them home, and he was looking forward to every damn minute of it.

_**The End.**_

_**Many thanks everyone. Hope you all enjoyed that and it wasn't too crap.**_

_**Sorry it too so long to post: not feeling too well this weekend.**_

_**Love and hugs,**_

_**ST xxx**_


End file.
